Bertha looked up. The building in front of her was the shape of a baguette standing on its end and the colour of mushroom soup. She walked towards the imposing front door and raised her ham-coloured hand to knock on the frosted (translucent, not frosted like a cake is frosted) glass. It made a noise like dropping a can of baked beans on a tiled floor.

‘Hello?’ she said. The building was as silent as refrigerated milk. She waited for a few seconds, then a few more, until she had been waiting for roughly the amount of time it takes to toast a muffin. There was no reply, much in the same way there is no reply if you phone a takeaway restaurant on a night when they’re not open. She tutted under her breath, making the same noise as a bubble popping on the surface of a thick tomato and basil sauce which has been brought to the boil.